


The Take Down

by Euregatto



Series: RVB one-shots [7]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, In which South gets Epsilon, Other, and York gets to deal with it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:32:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11689821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Euregatto/pseuds/Euregatto
Summary: "I certainly can't dream," Epsilon tells her smugly, the icy haze of his presence creeping down the length of her spine, spanning through the back of her head, "but you can. And I can feel it when you do."





	The Take Down

**Author's Note:**

> In which South copes with AI unit Epsilon, and North expects York to help pick up some of the slack.
> 
> A concept piece, of sorts.

_I’ve been thinking again._

The memories are blurring together and her skull feels like it wants to split apart at the seams. Epsilon shudders, pulling her fully awake through the thick layers of her dreams as she inhales sharply and remembers, suddenly, how to breathe. She recalls it the same way one learns to fight, the courage to keep a pulse, the will to bend and to break.

The room is still but her heartbeat is crashing.

_Have I forgotten something?_

Wash – she thinks it might be Wash, it’s hard to tell when she still isn’t adjusted to reality – says something incoherent to North. Something about running, safe havens, York and…Allison?—no, that’s not right. They don’t know Allison, not like she does. Not like Epsilon does.

_Am I dreaming?_

The pod under her arm murmurs as she shuts her eyes to listen to the voices howling outside like a specter. If she focuses her attention on Epsilon its humming intensifies like the distant thrumming of engines, reminding her of a past that will never be her own. And as exhaustion sets in again she hears North calling out to her, a whisper like a missile below water, dangerous and inevitably disastrous and she wonders if Allison will come visit.

_I need to stop dreaming._

* * *

   

“You know," Washington says, beginning with a casual drone that South has come to recognize as  _'Please don't take this the wrong way, but'_ , "if you want, you can have it instead.”

South's gaze snaps up. Attentive. “The Epsilon AI?”

“Yeah.”

Bullshit. He's gotta be bullshitting her. “Are you sure?” she asks him insistently, testing the waters. They had lost Eta and Iota to Carolina in her selfish, self-destructive attempt to reclaim her spot at the top of the board - to be better than agent Texas. And South, spiteful all the same, can't blame Carolina for at least wanting to  _try,_ even if it means stealing what isn't yours.

“I don’t really like the idea of having something like... _that_ , in my head," Wash replies. He offers her a cigarette that she takes from his pack, but her lighter sparks and doesn't flare up. "I wasn’t certain how to tell the Director either. So trust me, you'll be doing me, and yourself, a favor."

He leans over to her and lights her cigarette with his. She gives him a coy smile.

"What if Epsilon makes me into the best soldier on the ship?" she chides, prodding his ribs with her elbow. "You won't be able to take it back."

Wash is unsettled by her joke. As if she's gone and jinxed it or something.

"Yeah, South. I’m sure.”

    

* * *

  

She does remember awakening briefly, North above her, ushering her name. Can’t be real but she reaches up and presses her hand to his face to seek out his familiarity. He feels like he hasn’t shaved in days. She holds her hand in his as they grow together in their mother’s womb.

"It's my fault," Wash says from the darkness. "I shouldn't have let her take my place."

"You can't blame yourself," comes Tex's response. "No one knew this would happen. There was no way to tell if it would go wrong."

The memories that converge in her mind are nothing more than ghost towns: empty of all they once were, even though the presence and promise of familiarity still lingers. An unfamiliar, sobbing voice whispers from somewhere else, beyond him, digging its skeletal claws into her flesh like meat hooks and tugging her down into the darkness once more. She has no will to fight it.

 _Save me,_ Epsilon screams.  _I don’t want these memories anymore._

_Save me. Save me._

_Save me –_

  

* * *

“Who are you?”  

_“I’m…I’m uh…I have no idea. It seems I’ve forgotten.”_

“I was told your name is Epsilon.”  

_“Oh, yes, right right! I’m Epsilon. Who are you?”_

“I’m agent South Dakota.”

_"It’s nice to meet you, agent South Dakota!”_

“You can call me South. Everyone else does.”

_“Is there a North Dakota?”_

“Yes, he’s my twin brother. You should know this."

_“I’m sorry…a lot of me is missing. I’m not sure what, but I’m missing. What was your name again?”_

“South.”

_“South."_

"That's right."

_"South"-_ his hand reaches out and brushes her bangs from her face _-"do you want to know what I know?"_

    

* * *

 

For a moment her mind buzzes with white noise, attempting to reassemble itself to cope with reality, unaware of the time and date and place. She glances over to find the Epsilon pod is no longer nestled against her side and is instead gone, turns her attention the other way when light of a nearby star moves into view behind the window pane. Awake? Alive? Another dream, another memory?

_It’s so hard to tell._

The sink water is running in the bathroom. She peers through the opening of the cracked door and sees York with a towel fastened around his waist, rinsing his face under the faucet.

 _New York_ , the voice in her head murmurs. She’s never personally been there but the memories diverge into her mind, blonde hair beneath neon signs, ridged sidewalks, car horns and chatter. She feels in love with it all. The dazzling, incoherent, loud, whimsical, screaming screaming screaming-

“York,” she mutters.

“South?”

She winces, blinks against the light above her. North is hovering against the backdrop of the ceiling, the contrast concern and relief overlapping simultaneously. “North?” she utters, blinks again. “Jesus, what happened?”

“You lost control of the Epsilon unit,” York says as he crosses the room to meet them.

“Fucking figures…” She presses her palms to her forehead, rubs her temples. “Ugh. How long was I out?”

“Only a few days this time,” North replies. "You came to visit and had another lapse."

Always a lapse.

She pushes herself upright. Unconsciousness has never worked wonders on her schedules; it’s difficult to distinguish night and day on a ship in a place where time is both irrelevant and irreversible. The internal clocks are synchronized on 24-hour cycles, yet she lacks any nearby equipment that could give some sort of awareness of just how long she’s been asleep.

But, it’s not a ship they’re in. It’s an apartment. There’s dwindling sunlight behind the cityscape and a train track that weaves into the high rises. She blinks and then the memory is gone.

North’s hands are trembling when he glides his arms around her shoulders and brings her against him, the contours of his armor digging painfully into her skin. She gently pats his side. “North?”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m okay. Keep it together.”

He reluctantly lets her go. “How are you feeling?”

“Better than I did during the implantation process.” She rubs the chip implanted in the back of her neck. They finally transferred Epsilon from the pod to the chip, yet the pain and psuedo-memories linger with it. "Shit, my head hurts like a bitch though. Can we get something to eat?"

North glances at York, returns his attention to his sister. "Okay," he says, "but take it slow."

"I'm not a fucking child, North."

"You've been out of commission for nearly four weeks."

She winces. Four? Really?

 _Yes,_ Epsilon whispers.  _I'm sorry._

"Fine. Slow it is."

  

* * *

     

A short, easy mission is assigned to her on her first day back in the field. York is given the task of  ~~babysitter~~  back-up, just in case South has another lapse, although he suspects that she'll be okay ( _okay_  is a very loose term). The neural link with Epsilon has been stabilizing, consistently, despite the lapses, to the point that the Director has declared Epsilon's implant an "acceptable success."

Yeah, sure. Successfully fucked up. 

South is several paces ahead of him on the rooftop outpost. Sniping targets is South's least favorite kind of mission - (she prefers to get her hands dirty, instead leaving all the yard work to her brother) - but she doesn't complain as she finds a spot to set up and sets up without an issue. York cautiously lays himself out beside her, his own sniper kicked up at the ready.

Just in case.

"You don't have to hold my hand," South tells him. "I'm not a fuckin' child. I've got it."

York rolls his eyes. "You've been in and out of a coma for four weeks. You really think I'm going to let you do this alone?"

She huffs. “Whatever, York."

"Take it easy, take it slow."

Her scope trains on the figure at the front of the stage. Some prominent figure on this planet, or something like that. She doesn't really give a shit when the pay check is better than the points. "Epsilon?” she remarks.

Epsilon shudders to life, responding to her voice. He flickers briefly, as if struggling to solidify his projection, but ultimately disappears.

“So you do hear me.”

_I'm here, South._

South doesn’t recall the exact moment when she feels the neural pulses suddenly desynch but the snow falls from the sky all the same. She can hear the voices, the living, breathing, pulsing memories, the heartbeat of the city, the thoughts of the sky. 

_“I’ve never seen snow before.”_

South trembles. “Fucking hell Allison, not right  _now_. I can't..."

"South," York says, "you're confused again."

She's trembling. Her scope is trained on the target at the center of the stage, but she's hesitating. York reaches over, carefully, first laying his hand on her back, waiting for her immediate reaction. She shoulders him off.

"What do you  _want_ , York? It's my fault she died! I couldn't -"

His hand touches her back again. "Hey, you're just confused, South. Take a deep breath-"

She pulls the trigger. Again. Again and again and again, hitting every target she can find, the bystanders in the crowd, the speakers on the stage, the passing civilians on the street. Sending them in a panic and she keeps firing, impacting officers, street-goers, people who aren't even involved, killing killing  _killing_  -

York finds the man in the suit and fires. His head explodes as the bullet pierces its mark. Delta registers York's elevated heart rate and projects himself before South's visor.

_"Agent South, you are going to have a panic attack if you do not calm yourself. Follow my instructions."_

The training simulation is clearly going about as smoothly as York figured it would - and it all happens because North is out on a mission, always on a stupid mission because South hasn't been cleared 'fit for fucking duty' since the meltdown and that's why York is in this stupid fucking predicament in the first place. It was equally stupid of her to think she could pick up a rifle again and shoot the goddamn, unmoving target but the gunshot triggers her almost immediately. Triggers  _Epsilon_.

York knew he shouldn't have let her do this.

The darkness cleaves into South's world. She doesn’t recognize this sensation for almost half a minute when she abruptly ceases her shooting, posture going rigid, the anxiety rushing in and out and into her core.

_"Take a deep breath, agent South, and count to four."_

_South?_

Her chest tightens, her lungs compress. She pushes up to her knees, clutching at her breast plate, gasping for the air that does not come to her. “I can’t breathe,” she mutters, draws in a wheezy gasp, clutches at her armor. It feels like it’s suffocating her, driving her sanity into a maw of dissonance and her panic tugs on the reigns. Her hands are shaking as she fumbles with her helmet, the clasps of her plates, can’t get a solid grip on anything. Is going to drown inside her own suit. “G-Get it off me!”

It's York who leans over her, grasps her arms. “Okay, okay. Hey, look at me. South,  _breathe_. Just breathe. I’m here.”

_Oh no, I've lost control again._

Shut up shut up shut up-

She’s quaking violently, drops down with her forehead in the tile and hands cross behind her head. She screams into nothing, cuts off with a gasp, swallows the rock in her throat. Her vehement breathing is clogging the intercom and it takes every bit of his nerves to avoid shutting it off. It’s just been so long since her last attack, York doesn’t think – doesn’t know – if he can handle this without North, if it’ll be as bad as it has always been.

_North can't ever forgive your parents for what they’ve done to you._

“I’m sorry I need to – take it off,  _please_. I can’t – I can’t breathe  _I can’t_ -!”

“Ssh, I’m here. I’m here.” He gently pulls her against him. Doesn’t expect it to help any, which it doesn’t, but at least she doesn’t keep insisting on ripping her own head off. Compared to every other time, when North would hold her because there was little for her to grasp onto – this isn’t the worst, she’s not clawing at her own skin or – oh, he spoke too soon. “There, you’re okay now. Hey, no – stop it!”

She starts scratching at her face, at her neck, trying to rip it off, tries to shed her armor again. “I can’t-!”

_I'm sorry South I'm sorry I'm so sorry I didn't mean -_

“South, I’m here, you’re okay.”

She shudders, balls her hands into fists. Searches for something to ground her in reality. She settles for fully leaning against York, bumping her skull against the underside of his chin. “Okay, okay, okay…” Feels his arms drawing her closer. They sink to the floor, her dragging him and the sirens are rising in the background, and he lets her hold on to him. His visor presses to hers, she's crying against him, he doesn't know what to do.

He realizes now that their faces are close, too close. “Okay, you're okay. I’m okay…we’re okay…”

_I never meant to do this to you, South._

_I'm so sorry._

   

* * *

   

The ride back is silent and haunting.

The debriefing is equally unsettling. Twelve confirmed kills, one confirmed target kill. The Director doesn't ask them what happened, only if the Epsilon field test was a success. South's hands are shaking. York merely says, "Well, the target's dead. I'd call that successful."

They're given their points and dismissed.

  

* * *

 

 _"This implantation process cannot be reversed,"_ FILSS reminds her as the machines, the surgeons, the implants are prepped. Her voice is soft, informative. It sounds like an omen but South is hellbent on having what is rightfully hers.

She's worked for it. She deserves this.

_"Would you like to continue, agent South?"_

  

* * *

      

Going planetside has never been her favorite activity, especially since she has to adjust so quickly to the variously and vastly different atmospheres, but it’s always an excuse for the Freelancers to abandon their gear in trade for casual clothes, which offers South enough freedom to catch her breath. The tension alleviates in the tepid air of the bustling beach-side city, allows her to make contact with fresh faces and unfamiliar exotic foods. They’re stationed until the next morning, much to the Director’s dismay, so the Freelancers are given a limited window to stretch their legs on the mainland.

South decides to waste some of her pocket money in exchange for renting a motorcycle. She cruises up the main roads, burns through emissions and time and energy like whittling away at a spear with a knife, avoiding every coworker (and especially her brother) she has any particular disfavor towards. Yet she still manages to find York of all people, tossing a soft drink container into the public recycling can outside of a mildly popular burger joint. She’s rarely seen him without armor yet he still adorns his dog tags and a trademark 'Let's Go Get Lost' tank top. She draws up to the curb, crosses her arms at him.

Offers him a fucking ride.

“Where to?”

“Nowhere in particular. But the day’s almost over, we should spend it either fucking around or fucking it up.”

He opens his mouth to respond, draws the corners of his lips into a smirk. “Alright, that I can agree with.”

The next thing she knows, they’re rocketing down the southern boulevard overlooking the city limit beaches. She drives so far over the speed limit everything blurs by them like the inside of Picasso’s head but York’s insistent screams about the law go unnoticed, or at the very least, she doesn’t acknowledge it. He has his arms fastened around her torso by the first ten seconds of riding what she dubs as “bitch seat”; for the sake of his own life, he doesn’t allow his pride to coerce him into letting her go.

_We don’t even have helmets._

They trace the rim of the road, silhouetted animatedly against the dual setting suns over the ocean’s horizon.

“You have to relax!” she calls back, releasing her grasp on the handle bars. York shouts and leans forward to clutch them, pressing his chin onto her shoulder as support, steering around the traffic into the farthest lane where there are few other drivers. They rocket along the edge of the shoulder now, crossing pavement at twice the legal limit, sending a blind terror through York’s system. Initially he wants to panic, regrets ever agreeing to such a stupid fucking thing.

He loves it.

But she stretches her arms, extends her neck. Feels the wind on her flesh and the breeze whipping wildly through her untamed locks. Keeps her back pliantly pressed to his chest. The sunlight tangles with her hair, reflecting platinum, crystallizing her skin like the surface of a porcelain doll. From this angle he can see the trademark jagged scar on her face. It’s almost like she’s perfection in every flaw, a courageous anger, a sweet apathy, a subsuming black hole on the brink of a spinning pulsar.

She inhales,  _breathes_.

He’s entranced by her trust in him and by her glaring beauty. Almost too distracted to notice the curve that forks into an exit. He snaps out of his daze when he realizes that she relaxes, readily returns from her brief expanse into nirvana. Her palms move over his, motioning for them to veer off the highway and onto the ramp towards the boardwalk ramp around the bend. Working in a sudden synch neither had ever expected to accomplish with anyone else, let alone each other, they ease off the engine and drift onto the raised structure and skid over the steps on the other side, startling several passersby into flocking away like birds.

The bike runs fine on the sand. It coasts easily over towards the edge of the ocean’s maw, draws to a casual halt with a thick track imprinted behind them.

She dismounts, kicks off her boots swiftly. “Wait, hold on.”

He follows her lead decisively as she treks into the rolling waves until the water’s edge rushes up against her knees, soaking the hem of her shorts. He wades over to her, his arms closing around her waist, bringing her against him. And the tide rises as he kisses her, drawn in like matter to a cosmos. Like a black hole they sort of just happen. And like a black hole, she’ll consume him whole.

“Allison, I love you.”

She blinks and the world drops out from beneath her.

_“Please don’t say goodbye.”_

South is jostled by the dream, by Epsilon's memories. It's so difficult to tell where one begins and where one ends.

Her quarters have been eerily silent since CT's betrayal. South can hear the distant thrumming of the ship's engines, vibrating through the walls and the floor and the ventilation system. The air that filters into the room hisses when it turns up, but the scent of cigarette smoke still lingers. Familiarity no longer brings her comfort. At some point, nothing could settle the unease digging a pit into South's stomach.

 _Were you dreaming again?_ Epsilon inquiries as if he doesn't know.

"Do you dream?" she asks him in return, her eyes on the ceiling. If she focuses, not enough to chase the memory but only enough to keep it at her finger tips, she can recall a time when a woman she's never met slept beside her.

_AIs aren't programmed to dream._

"You're an overpriced lightbulb," she snaps and rolls out of bed.

 _I certainly can't dream,_  he tells her smugly, the icy haze of his presence creeping down the length of her spine, spanning through the back of her head,  _but you can. And I can feel it when you do._

"So why did you ask?" is her next question as she pulls on a t-shirt and heads out the door.

_You'll find that AI's are quite curious, agent South._

"I can't stop dreaming because you fucked up my head," she says finally. "It's gonna take me  _months_  to get cleared for high-class missions again. You stupid prick."

 _Do you want an apology or something?_  There's an intense, icy sting now, moving beneath the surface of her skin.  _That's not happening, not this time. I didn't ask to get paired with you in the first place, so you'd better go run your mouth off at the Director instead of me._

She makes her way over to North and York's room. She knows their code, lets herself in. North doesn't stir, even when South tucks herself under the sheet and presses to his back. They used to share a bed as children, occasionally as teens after a particularly rough night of South receiving the blunt end of her parents' persistent bereavement. North is a constant, a rock that will not move even when she tries to push him away.

_But I am sorry..._

South lets herself sleep.

_That I couldn't save her._

  

* * *

   

He’s trained to notice the little things, the miniscule, intricate details like styles of armor and imprinted patterns in imperfect paint that tell exactly where a person is from and what piece of home they try to keep with them; the minute correspondence of accents with placement and the mannerisms of holstered or preferred weapons to allow him to gauge confidence with professionalism or competence or both. Needless to say, he’s very,  _very_  good at noticing things.

And he’s noticed that the blondes across the room have been staring at him for the last half hour.

“Looks like we got the new guys in,” agent Massachusetts remarked earlier on, just as North and South Dakota walk through the door. The closest to identical Fraternal twins can get.

York finds them both equally attractive, platinum and blue, something about them so lethal and bold and elegant he shivers with anticipation. They watch him watching at some point during the lunch hour, after they sat at a table within his line of sight. They notice him and they don’t stop  _looking_.

South threads her arm through North’s. Doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t seem bothered when she whispers something to her brother who replies and that’s when her expression finally shifts. Her lips curl into a disgusted snarl. His curve upwards into a hardy smile.

York remembers this is how he felt the first time he saw Carolina, too. Intrigue, attraction.

If only he could have known how that would end.

   

* * *

   

When she awakens again it's still early in the cycle and North is gone. South sits up, finding that York is now awake as well, moving across the room with an armful of cleaned shirts. Her hands grasp first for the empty spot, radiating warmth, and in her exhausted state she mutters, "North?"

If York is surprised to find her in his best friend's bed, he doesn't say anything. Instead he drops his clothes on his bed and treks over to her, perching himself beside her, his hand to her shoulder. At first his touch is soft, hesitant, but she leans into it. He's still so unfamiliarly _familiar_ to her in the state of waking. A comfort. A constant. Much like North but different and calculated and she feels her heartbeat rising, rising, rising -

"It's just me," he tells her.

She nods, rubs the sleep from one eye with her palm. "Where'd North go?"

"He still doesn't sleep well," York says. "Having an extra voice in your head will do that to a person. I'm sure you can get that."

South wishes now that the AIs were never invented. She furrows her brow in thought, in agitation. "Fucking sucks."

"It's just you and me then, huh?"

"It's always just you and me, especially these days."

Their faces are close again, too close again. Always getting too close lately but neither of them has tried to pull away. South's hands are gentle for someone so spiteful and jealous, even as the pads of her thumbs press against the depressions beneath his eyes, and then one finger arcs up to trace the lightning bolt scar of his injury. How many times have they been here with this unspoken thing between them, the unlikely friendship and the gravity pulling them closer. She etches the memory of him into her mind.

_What's happening, South?_

He leans in to meet her kiss.

_South?_

His lips are on her throat, her shoulders, her chest. She's meeting for every heartbeat between them, the closing distance, the crashing and colliding and the digging fingernails, moans, whispers, kisses. Shedding clothes and the hurt pride and any dignity, ridding themselves of an existence that is burning this into her memories and instead she is offering herself to a moment in time that memories, sleep, and Allison cannot dare to touch.

_Are you dreaming again, South?_

        

* * *

 

       

York is gone and South is in a training session when the MoI is all at once blaring with alarms and sirens and the entirety of the ship  _jolts_. North doesn't answer her attempts at hailing him.

And then  _she's_  there,  _her_ , shadow black armor and a lethal stance, moving across the ship like a banshee.

_Allison?_

South sets her jaw.

"Come on Epsilon," she tells her AI. "We've got a monster to catch."

    

* * *

   

_"Do you want to know what I know?"_

 

There is a spark, the lapping flames of a persistent memory, that divulges into her mind. She stands at the brink of a shoreline with Epsilon, an AI once, now a Spartan in sky blue armor and a gentle touch as he takes her hand in his. Two people that only Epsilon fully recalls had stood here many times before, this one moment in a time long gone, caught forever between a pulse and a thought. 

 _"These memories may not be mine,"_  he says,  _"but if I'm gonna share, I may as well give you a good one."_

Her gaze wanders out to the sea. The vehement waves, the salt on her tongue, the sun collapsing beyond the horizon and in its place rises the rest of the cosmos she still has yet to see. Stars and lightning strikes and military routines, shadows that whisper incoherent sentiments, a life she has never lived but has died for all over again.

 _"It's time to wake up, agent South,"_ another voice calls to her from beyond the sky.

She grasps the tendrils of the memory, the unending push and pull of the dream, her hand desperately clutching Epsilon's.

   

  

_"It's time to wake up. There's nothing for you here."_


End file.
